"The most clear in language happens not a word, and tone, an accent, rate with which a number of words is said, - to tell more shortly, the music disappearing under words, the passion disappearing behind music, the person disappearing behind passion, that is all that cannot be written." F.N.
netlabel: Clinical Archives
August 13, 2008
Wow... I am listening to the first few seconds as I write... the lump in my throat is pretty solid.
Can you imagine being stranded in northern Manitoba in December, as the greyness that was the last of the sun is fading...
You think you hear a wolf, or a child crying, or your own breathing as it crytalizes into sobs and then silence.
The 47 kilometers to the rail line, that rail line where a train only runs every third day... when the weather permits... that 47 kilometers is no longer a distance to be measured with the overlay of memory from past walks in the wilderness. The space is an enormous glowing cylinder into which all of life's regrets are transformed into light, before wasting themselves in the darkness of the sky above. Stars seem touchable in these moments.
[That concludes the reaction to track 1, Hoarfrost Embryo]
We had some fairly normal plans for this journey; we wanted to reach the eastern edge of a (rumored) military installation, abandoned by the US in 1979.
Aside from the more conspicuous Cold War Ruskie hunting that the US and Canada felt obliged to do after World War II, there are stories (disinformation mostly, turds from some tinkering ex-enigma-machine hacker) of a fairly extensive research and development operation built in the Canadian sub-arctic. We didn't know what to beleive, but were happy to pretend that the X-Files was not just a TV show and that we had more expertise on the subject thant we actually had. For me, personally, it was the emptiness of the promise of these rumors that drew me in. The fantastic engorgement of my imagination in the company of rumors of things hidden beneath the permafrost gave me a genuine sense of euphoria.
And I knew that so much of what had happened after the war was still safely recorded. And just as missing fragments of early films so often come to light, it seemed just as possible that hidden secrets from the war could find us also.
[That ends thoughts from track 2, "Arctic Linqua" and track 3, "Intermezzo"]
We found it, we arrived where we should not be, could not be, and it was there, still there, and still alive, still seething. My traveling companions were gone before I even could say to myself that something here was very wrong.
[That's track 4, "Liquid Radio"]
So I was still alive, even if only in that fragmented, philosophical sense. My feet were still in my boots, so it was more that consciousness wavering above a body.
Let me say it simply, narative aside. I was alive. I was ok. But I was a long way from knowing it yet. There was something tangled in my consciousness, and my building angst only drew the knots of confusion tighter. The tools I had were as useless as stones in an operating theater. I could only hope to bludgeon the patient and dirty the stone. I had these long spells of zen-like clarity where I saw what I was seeing for the first time. The colors of light split in the prism of ice crytals formed on the edges of diminutive and bent pines.
[That concludes track 5, "Frozen Dub", and this selection of music and my thoughts about it all}